


take me to church

by thetealord



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetealord/pseuds/thetealord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James somehow survives and saves Harry's life, but Harry never really recovers from the events at the church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me to church

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I get really upset when I hear Take Me to Church because my husband got me to associate with Harry and this is all his fault. So after I heard this version (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9C0xGB73Uuc) on an 8tracks playlist which was then followed by this (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVXziMFEqX0) I started thinking about them in a bar and then this all happened. I highly suggest listening to them especially the first one.
> 
> Also Postmodern Jukebox is amazing.

Harry sipped his guinness and traced the grain in the wood of the table with his eyes, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.  

"That's him in the corner," James muttered to him. Harry showed no obvious sign of having heard him, but he knew James would be well aware. He bumped his knee against his husband's beneath the table. Even as years passed, and even as drastically as everything else had changed, some things always remained the same. James was still there with him, his rock in the relentless storm, always there to reassure him with a glance or a touch or his mere presence. He wasn't even sure if James was always aware just how much his almost constant presence meant to Harry.

Even now, surrounded by the bustle and noise in the bar, people chattering, dishes clanging, drinks being poured, the left side of his head—a wound that had never full healed and never would—began to pound just slightly. He wanted to lean more into the other man, or reach for his hand, but in the interest of being discreet he merely lifted one hand and rubbed, just slightly, at his temple to try to quell the pain.

For years, he'd refused to do field work, not entirely sure what it was he was so afraid of. Too many things, perhaps. He knew he wasn't ready for it. He didn't even think he would be there now if it weren't for James keeping him steady. But it was just a little surveillance, nothing too taxing. If only they weren't in that blasted overcrowded bar.

He was Arthur now, though, and aside from simply keeping himself fit, he knew there might be times where he was needed in the field. He was too skilled to be done with it forever, even if he was verging on sixty. James knew that, so did he, and so there they were.

Lifting his head a little, Harry turned his good eye towards the corner James had spoken of, eyeing the group of men there for a moment before turning back to his drink. Their target was indeed there, along with a few other middle-aged gentlemen, laughing loudly over their drinks.

"What's the plan?" James whispered to him. "Seduction?" Harry just looked at him and James gave his eyebrows a good waggle and grinned, leaning in closer and brushing Harry's thigh with his fingers.

"Oh stop that," Harry mumbled, swatting at him. He did smile a little, though. Just enough that it touched the corners of his lips and went no further. "Of course not. We're too old for that nonsense. You'll stop him on the way out, act drunk, maybe pretend you think he's someone you know. We'll put a tracker on him and keep tabs on him from the cab."

James sipped his whiskey, watching him. Harry was sure he saw a little concern in his husband's eyes but then, James had plenty of reasons to be concerned. "Sounds good to me," he said. "I'll keep an eye on him. If you can distract him somehow once he moves, I'll grab him."

Harry nodded, distantly, and settled in to wait. There was live music. A woman singing modern songs in a 1920's style. They had a nice little band, but this number in particular was... slower, a piano the only instrument, and the bar had quieted a little as some of the patrons leaned in to listen.

_Take me to church_ , she sang.

And the first thought in Harry's head as he sipped his guinness was that he hated that song. It was one of those hits from back in 2015, and the lyrics had always made him think too much of Kentucky. And that was a dangerous slope. Already, the thoughts were tumbling in, the memories waking up.

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife._

His head hurt suddenly and he pressed his fingers to his temple, opened his mouth to say he needed to get up, go for a walk or something, just get out of that bar, but they were in the middle of a mission and he couldn't leave. He couldn't... they were in a booth and he was on the inside and when he looked over at James he suddenly remembered a pew, and a very different person sitting beside him, and that time he'd pushed past her and then—

_Offer me that deathless death, good God let me give you my life._  

Suddenly, the singer was the preacher and it was so damn loud and the people in the bar were the people in the church and his eyes were wide and he was shaking, his heart pounding in his ears and in his chest. 

"Harry?" James was looking at him, worried, but Harry knew James blamed him— except no, he didn't, of course he didn't. That was just his mind feeding him lies, wanting him to hate himself, he knew that.

"No, no," he mumbled under his breath, tore off his glasses and set them on the table, shoved aside his guinness before he spilled it and put his face in this hands, trying to just... breathe, and trying so, so hard to see and think about anything other than blood. So much blood, all those people... and his head hurt, the pulsing in his left eye socket driving him mad. He gripped that side of his head, growling and shaking into his palm. 

_Something meaty for the main course_

_That's a fine looking high horse_

He felt James' fingers brushing his shoulder and lashed out, his good eye dark, snarling at him. "Don't _touch_ me!" and when a part of him realized what he'd done, fumbled, his voice tight, his breath heavy. "Just... don't, leave me alone, just go away." He put his face in his hands again, tried to make it dark and quiet, and shrunk away from James even if what he knew he really, really wanted was to curl up tight in his husband's arms, where it was safe. Where it was always safe.

_That looks tasty_

_That looks plenty_

_This is hungry work_

James didn't leave, of course. Harry could feel him, sitting motionless a foot away, watching, waiting, while Harry shook and dug his fingernails into his hairline and tried to breathe even though he couldn't breathe. And that damn singer was still singing that bloody song. And the worst, the absolute worst thing was that even after eight years he still remembered every face. Every person he shot, stabbed, impaled, he remembered them all. Forty people, they told him. There were about forty people in that bar, too. He could kill them all, if he wanted to, but he didn't, no, no, that was the last thing he wanted, not here, not in the church, not anywhere, that wasn't him it was someone else. Some... monster Valentine had yanked to the surface, and yet he knew it was still there, that monster was a part of him, and he hated himself for it.

"It wasn't me," he found himself mumbling, half-sobbing, as the singer burst back into the chorus, and there were tears in his eyes. "It wasn't my fault. I should be dead, I should be dead. Oh God, forgive me."

"Harry." James' voice sounded a billion miles away.

_Only then am I human, only then am I clean._

Gently, he felt James touching his shoulder again, and he leaned away just a little, and then, because he didn't really have it in him to pull away, not when he needed it _so much_ , he leaned back, pressing his shoulder into the man's palm, and sobbed once into his hands.

"Hey," James whispered to him, coaxing him closer. "Come here, it's okay. I know, I know." Harry didn't resist, let himself be pulled over until his face was pressed against James' shoulder and James' arms were around him, holding him tight, and James' fingers were running through his hair as the other man whispered to him, quiet and soothing.

And finally Harry just... forgot all about the bar and the mission. He just curled up and clung to his husband and cried and cried and cried into his shoulder. He didn't care that it wasn't becoming for a man his age or that they were in public or that he was probably embarrassing the other man, he couldn't stop. 

_Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen._

Distantly, he heard James mutter to Merlin that they were aborting the mission. Distantly, he thought he heard one of the patrons of the bar ask if everything was all right, and James responded snappishly that they were just fine, thank you.

Then just like that, the singer shifted into an upbeat jazz rendition of _Careless Whisper_ , and James was coaxing him out of the booth, to his feet, leaving money for the drinks on the table.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," James whispered to him, "let's get you home." 

"The mission," Harry protested quietly, but James shook his head. 

"It's not imperative. We at least know that he frequents here now, we'll catch him another time."

And honestly, Harry was too tired and upset to protest, too worn to come up with any logic against what James had said. He just let the other man usher him out of the bar, leaning into him, and as soon as they were outside and the cool air hit his face and the noise of the bar died away, he felt worlds better already. 

The memories of what had happened when he walked out of that church began to surface and he clung tighter to his husband, focused on his warmth and his scent, the way James squeezed his shoulder and pressed his nose into his hair for a moment. His rock in the storm, always, always, holding him down, keeping him steady. At this point, together for twenty years, married for eight of those, he could hardly remember a time when James had not been at his side. And after everything, it was incredible that they were still alive, still together.

James coaxed him into the cab, ordered the driver to take them home, and kept Harry close, an arm wrapped securely around his waist. And Harry rested his head on his husband's shoulder and closed his eyes, reached for his hand and held it tight.

He just had to keep believing that as long as they were still together, everything would be all right. And he would be fine.


End file.
